The Villain’s Daughter

by Roberta Kray

  ‘Michael,’ her uncle said, shaking the outstretched hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise. I was just off to the bar. Can I get you another?’

  Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Michael nodded. ‘That’s very good of you, son. I’ll take a Guinness and Iris will have . . .’

  ‘Iris is fine,’ she said firmly, worried that if Toby stayed for much longer, his new best friend might decide to join them too. After what had happened yesterday she had no desire to renew the acquaintance.

  Michael, eager for the pint but aware of a certain atmosphere, looked from one to the other. Then, either mistaking the ensuing silence for a cue to make himself scarce or simply in need of a pee, he stood up and headed for the Gents.

  Toby slid into the space beside her. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘I could say the same.’ She picked up her glass. ‘So what’s with you and Danny boy? I thought you couldn’t stand him.’

  ‘Just doing my duty,’ he said, grinning widely. ‘Making sure I keep the punters happy. As Pa would say, you can’t overestimate the importance of customer service. We’re going on to a club later. Fancy joining us?’

  Iris couldn’t imagine anything she’d like less. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘It’ll be a laugh.’

  ‘Other plans, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What kind of plans?’ Then, before she had the opportunity to come up with anything even vaguely plausible, he threw a sneaky glance in the direction of the Gents. ‘Oh, right. I get it. Something you’d rather your better half didn’t know about, huh?’

  Iris frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, you’d usually be at home by now, putting on the dinner and waiting for your loved one to return. Instead, here you are snuggling up to—’

  ‘Snuggling?’ she said.

  Toby tapped the side of his nose with a finger. ‘Hey, your secret’s safe with me, darling. Everyone’s entitled to a little fun. I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  Had it been anyone but Toby, she would have been offended. As it was, she knew that he was too much under the influence to be thinking even faintly straight. ‘I hate to disappoint you, sweetie, but he’s actually my uncle.’

  ‘Really?’ Hoping for something much more scandalous, Toby didn’t attempt to hide his disappointment. ‘You never told me you had relatives round here.’

  ‘There are lots of things I don’t tell you.’ She crossed her legs and glanced down at the glasses on the table. ‘I thought you were going to the bar.’

  ‘You said you didn’t want one.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  It took a few seconds for the penny to drop and then Toby giggled. ‘You trying to get rid of me, Iris?’

  ‘God forbid,’ she said, smiling back. ‘But I need to talk to Michael. Family stuff. You don’t mind, do you? We can catch up tomorrow. You can tell me all about your great night out.’

  Still laughing, Toby got to his feet. ‘It’s a date,’ he said, blowing her a breezy kiss before heading back across the room.

  She took a few sips of her wine and wondered what kind of a mood Luke was likely to be in when he came home that night. Although it pained her to admit it, she wasn’t looking forward to seeing him. Recently, it had all been niggles and rows, minor squabbles that escalated into bigger arguments. She understood his frustration - he wanted the old Iris back, the fun one with drive and attitude - but she couldn’t fake what wasn’t there. They were both stubborn and the more he pushed, the more she resisted.

  ‘Pssst.’

  Iris looked up at the sound, surprised to see an old man standing beside her. He was wearing a grubby grey overcoat and a red scarf pulled tight around his neck. It took her a moment to place him and when she did her heart gave a jolt. He was the same man who’d been in the High Street that morning, the one who’d been staring so determinedly at her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Got the time, love?’

  She gazed at him for a moment and then looked down at her watch. ‘Ten past six.’

  ‘Ta.’ Then he leaned down, getting too close to her face. His oily voice was hardly more than a whisper. ‘You and me need a little chat.’

  ‘Do we?’ she said, automatically shifting back. His breath was bad and his body reeked of stale sweat and tobacco. ‘What do you want?’

  His thin cracked lips crawled into a smile. ‘It’s more like a matter of what you might be wantin’.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry?’ Alarm bells were starting to go off. She had clearly been landed with the local nutter. Quickly, she looked around. She didn’t feel threatened exactly - the pub was full of people - but she didn’t fancy spending any more time with him than she had to. Where the hell was Michael? It didn’t take this long to have a pee. Then, to her dismay, she suddenly caught sight of the top of his head in the middle of the crowd at the bar. Realising that Toby’s offer of a free pint was unlikely to materialise, he’d decided to buy the round himself.

  ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ she said, as if the old man might be in the process of propositioning her.

  ‘Don’t you want to know where your daddy is?’

  Iris’s mouth dropped open. She could feel the blood draining from her face, a coldness running through her. The response, when she finally got it out, sounded thick and croaky. ‘W-what do you mean? Who are you?’

  ‘Just a friend,’ he said, ‘a friend who wants to help.’

  ‘What do you know about my dad?’

  ‘Not here,’ he said, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. ‘Meet me tomorrow night, half-six at the Monny. You know where that is?’

  Iris nodded, too bewildered to say anything else.

  ‘Half-six,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t be late, eh?’

  Then without another word he turned and walked away. Iris, unable to move - she felt as though her legs were full of lead - watched as he pushed rudely through a small group of people and swept out through the rear set of doors. There was a brief gust of winter air and he was gone. She was still in a state of shock when Michael came back with the drinks.

  ‘What’s the matter, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Do you know that man?’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The scruffy one, the old guy in the red scarf.’

  ‘Nah, I didn’t see him.’

  Iris, a delayed shot of adrenalin rushing through her body, suddenly jumped up. She wanted to run out of the pub, to chase after him, but then had second thoughts. She sat back down again.

  ‘What’s up?’ Michael said, looking worried. ‘Did he . . . did he do something to you?’

  She was about to blurt it all out, but then changed her mind. Michael, like her mother, was convinced that Sean O’Donnell was dead. She didn’t want to go causing any upset. But there was another reason for her silence too. She couldn’t bear to hear what she knew he would say - that the old man was crazy, that she shouldn’t take any notice of him. Sometimes the truth was too hard to take. A little bit of hope, she decided, was better than none.

  ‘No, er . . . nothing like that. Just a tramp trying to cadge a few quid. Maybe I should have given him something. He looked kind of hungry.’

  ‘He’d only spend it on the booze.’

  Iris squeezed out a smile. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

  It was another half-hour before she felt comfortable about leaving. She didn’t want Michael to think that she was rushing off, but as he had recently got into conversation with a trio of middle-aged but well-preserved ladies who had joined them at the table, she knew he wouldn’t miss her too much. With his usual gift of the gab, he was regaling them with stories of the good old days. One of the women in particular, a giggly blonde with a generous amount of cleavage on view, was giving him the eye. And Michael, always up for a flirt, was giving it straight back.

  ‘I’d better make a move,’ Iris said. ‘Luke’s going to be back s
oon.’

  Despite his pulling prospects, Michael didn’t hesitate. He started getting to his feet. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

  But Iris shook her head, put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down again. ‘Don’t worry, it’s early. I’ll be fine.’ She didn’t want to cramp his style. It was only a ten-minute walk back to Silverstone Heights and her thoughts were still spinning from what had happened earlier. She needed time alone, time to think.

  He hesitated, but she was insistent. ‘Stay where you are.’ She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’

  Iris turned up her collar as she stepped outside; the temperature had dropped a few degrees since she’d first arrived. Digging into her pockets, she found her gloves and pulled them on. There was snow forecast and she gazed up at the dark sky. Then she set out for the flat. She had only gone a few yards when she heard the thin clatter of the pub doors closing again.

  ‘Hold on!’

  She turned and jumped, hearing her own harsh intake of breath as she saw Chris Street striding towards her. His sharp face was lit by the overhead lamps. She could see that he was smiling, but with the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach to his eyes. ‘I wanted to apologise,’ he said as he drew up beside her, ‘for what happened yesterday.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Iris said nervously.

  ‘There’s every need. It all got out of hand. Feelings were running high and you got caught in the middle. It was out of order. We’re not normally that uncivilised. I’m sorry if we scared you.’

  Not half so much as he was scaring her now, she thought,. Despite his smart appearance and polite words, she sensed an ulterior motive. He’d had the last hour to express his regrets. If it was that important to him, why hadn’t he done it while she was inside? ‘That’s all right. I understand. People get upset when . . . I’m really sorry about your mother.’

  Immediately, she knew it was the wrong thing to say. She saw his whole body stiffen. ‘My mother died years ago.’

  Iris bit down on her lip. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I meant . . .’

  ‘It’s all right.’ The superficial smile immediately appeared again. ‘You weren’t to know. I just wanted to make sure that you were all right.’

  Iris forced a thin smile in return. ‘I’m fine.’ In some respects she found him more disturbing than his younger brother. Danny might be crazy, but he was visibly crazy - what you saw was what you got - whereas Chris had a more frightening mask of normality.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said softly.

  She went to move forward, but he wasn’t finished yet. Taking a small step to the side, he effectively blocked her path. ‘I hope Jenks wasn’t bothering you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Weasel,’ he said, ‘the old guy you were talking to.’

  Iris felt her heart begin to hammer. The Weasel? She sensed that this might not be the time to tell the truth. Instead, she tried to look nonplussed. Pretending to think about it, she furrowed her brow. ‘Oh, him,’ she eventually managed to say. ‘You mean the old tramp, the smelly bloke? He was only asking me the time.’

  ‘And?’

  She shrugged. ‘That was it.’

  A hard edge entered his voice. ‘It doesn’t take that long to ask the time.’

  Iris stared up at him, her hands clenching into two tight fists in her pockets. She was still scared, but now she was oddly uplifted too. If he was so concerned about what the old man had said then maybe there was some truth in it. ‘I don’t know. He was going on about how busy the place was. I think he was trying to tap me for a few quid. I-I wasn’t taking much notice. I just wanted to get rid of him.’

  Chris Street gave her a long, hard look and then his features gradually relaxed. ‘That’s all right then,’ he said smoothly. He reached out and gave her a friendly pat on the arm. ‘I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t bothering you. He has a habit of making up all kinds of stories. I’m afraid old Jenks isn’t all there in the head department.’

  And it took one to know one, Iris thought. ‘Right.’

  Finally, he stood aside. ‘Well, take care of yourself.’

  Iris looked into his cold eyes and didn’t like what she saw. ‘Thank you. I will.’

  Chapter Seven

  He takes a long, deep breath before opening the folder and removing the contents. This is a luxury he rarely allows himself. Today, however, is a special occasion. Today he has seen his little girl again. It may have only been a glimpse, but it was better than nothing. The funeral, and its attendant crowds, provided him with the perfect opportunity to stand only feet away from her.

  With care, he spreads the nineteen precious photographs out, one for every year they have been apart. The memory of that separation still fills him with grief, the pain as fiercely sharp as if it had happened yesterday. How agonising it had been! Kathleen could have left with him, but she wouldn’t. Not that he blames her - her choices were hard ones.

  He reaches out and with a finger gently traces the contours of his child’s face.He touches the freckles that run across the bridge of her nose, the rosebud mouth and silky red hair. He can still remember holding her as a baby, can still recall the sweet smell of her skin. He remembers her tiny fingers and toes. He feels his stomach twist. Other men craved sons, but not him; he had been overjoyed at the birth of a daughter.

  If only Kathleen had trusted him, trusted to the love they’d once had for each other. He had made mistakes, done terrible things, but they could still have had a future together. When he’d tried to get in touch again, she’d gone. Ten months it had taken him to track them down, but she still refused to change her mind. A clean break, she’d insisted, begging him to leave them alone. He could still see those green-grey eyes, full of tears and pleading. ‘Please. If you truly love us, then you’ll let us go.’

  Kathleen, with all those crazy Catholic notions of hers, had blamed herself, had believed it was all her fault, but it wasn’t - unless loving someone was a sin. He scowls. The Church, he thinks, has a lot to answer for. But he’d agreed to let them go . . . if not completely. For the past nineteen years he’s been paying someone to keep track of their movements, to deliver one treasured photograph of Iris every year. He deserves that one small consolation, doesn’t he?

  Rubbing at his eyes, he sighs. He’s paid a hefty price for his mistakes. Iris is grown up now, but that doesn’t mean she has no further need of a father. There can only be one reason why she’s come back to Kellston and it has to be to do with him. She must be searching, just as he is, for what has been lost.

  Does Iris imagine he abandoned her? To think of it provokes an ache deep inside. Because it isn’t true. He’s always been watching over, making sure that she’s safe. At the beginning he sent money too, but Kathleen always returned it. Fuck her! His hands curl into two tight fists. The knowledge of this, no matter how hard he tries, always makes him angry. Surely he was entitled to provide for his kid even if he couldn’t see her? There was principle and there was just downright stupidity. Kathleen was always too damn proud for her own good.

  He stares down at the photographs. Well, he has stuck to his side of the bargain and, after nineteen years of silence, has the right to claim back what is his. That isn’t too much to ask, is it? And now that Lizzie is dead, now the bitch is six foot under, there are no more obstacles. He’s been hiding away for too long. It’s time to step back into the light. It’s time to reach out to his little girl again.

  Chapter Eight

  It was Thursday morning and time was dragging by. Iris found herself constantly raising her head to look at the clock on the wall, frustrated by how slowly the red second hand was revolving, by how much longer she would have to wait. She was counting down the hours until her appointment with Jenks and it wasn’t doing much for her concentration. William Grand had already returned two letters with an embarrassing number of typos.

  ‘Er, sorry, I’m afraid there are . . .’ He was not a man who li
ked to complain and had passed the sheets over with stumbling apologies, as if the fault was somehow his rather than hers.

  The letters were important, both concerning an increasingly complicated repatriation. The dead man, being held in cold storage downstairs, had been with them for two months now, his body at the centre of an acrimonious family row. The wife wanted Connor Hills returned to Ireland, the son to have him buried in England. Solicitors had become involved and irate letters were flying back and forth.

  At one o’clock, the corrections having been made, Iris went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She retrieved her tuna sandwich from the fridge, peeled off the plastic wrapper and stared at it. Anxiety had blunted her hunger. She hadn’t eaten since the half slice of toast she had forced down at breakfast and butterflies were flapping in her stomach. She hadn’t told anyone about her meeting with Jenks, not even Luke. Not that she’d had the opportunity. He hadn’t rolled in until after midnight and by then she’d already been in bed. A year ago she’d have given him hell - he hadn’t even bothered to call her - but instead she had closed her eyes tight and pretended to be asleep.

  Alice Avery came into the kitchen with a tentative smile. She seemed, if it was possible, more jittery than usual. ‘No Toby today?’ she said, her eyes darting left and right as if he might suddenly jump out and start tormenting her again.

  Iris, glad of the distraction, raised her brows and grinned. ‘Don’t worry. He’s probably sleeping it off.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He went clubbing last night, out on the town with the delightful Danny Street. He wouldn’t be my choice for a dancing partner but hey, there’s no accounting for taste.’

  ‘No,’ Alice said.

  There was a short silence.

  As that conversation clearly wasn’t going anywhere, Iris tried a different tack. ‘Keeping busy?’

  Alice sat down. ‘So-so.’ As she placed her hands on the tabletop, Iris noticed that they were trembling.

  ‘Are you okay?’